


Shadows Fall

by Whitenightshade



Series: Steel Your Heart [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath, Dragon Age Quest: In Your Heart Shall Burn, Survivors Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitenightshade/pseuds/Whitenightshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The immediate aftermath of the Destruction of haven, and all that entails has a profound and lasting effect on the Herald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows Fall

The screaming.

The fire.

The overwhelming, choking fear.

Then silence, so sudden, clamped down and all about but the pain, the pain was so, so loud.

Too loud even against the tinnitus whining through her ears, the chattering of teeth, the spasms of power and light the newly named Anchor spewed from her palm.

The pain was everywhere, all encompassing. Blood dripped steady and red from her hairline, from her nose and mouth where teeth and stone bit through soft flesh on collision with the hard ground.

Uncontrollably shaking from cold and shock, she forced herself to stand, up and onwards otherwise lay here and die.

Suddenly it’s endless white; swift and biting chill. The only sounds above the whipping wind are wolves howling in the distance; crying and almost sorrowful. Appropriate, given the tears streaming down her face, rapidly freezing in the flurry of snow.  
Both seemed to mourn the village so freshly buried under rock and ice.

But there was no end in sight, either of the storm or this suffering and surely there would only be more trials to overcome.

Walking on, ever on; a now innate reflex.

Keep going, don’t stop.

 

Why?

 

She was so tired. Maker, she was so cold. How easy would it be to lie down, just for a moment and drift away sleeping.

 

Maybe she should.

 

Maybe this was enough. Leave a body and legacy, a martyrdom to inspire but she leave the future pain to those strong enough to endure.

 

Yes, that wasn’t so bad. Not so terrible at all.

  
She sank to her knees, snow so soft, its glacial embrace taking, leeching what little heat she had left.

It was so hard to think now, it wouldn’t be long.

 

It shouldn’t be long.

 

“It’s her!”

“Thank the Maker!"

 

No.

No, no, no, no. Not now, not ever again.

She could feel herself being pulled from the ground, up into someone’s arms, carried away from the dark sleep she desperately craved.

Put me down, leave me where I fell.

 

Let me go.

 

She wanted to scream at them, tell them they have no right to deny her this but she's still so tired. So cold, the chattering teeth pausing only a second at a time when they uncontrollably bite into her freezing lips, cleaving the skin because resuming their insistent pace.

She could feel her only chance slipping away from her, snatched so ruthlessly away from the jaws of that boundless void as she could feel hands and warmth, that uninvited warmth, ruthlessly chafing the life back in to her.

 

Tears built up anew, weeping behind closed eyes.

 

“Herald, you must take strength,” the voice familiar, the tone almost demanding, as truly befitting the commander he was “You must hold on.”

She didn’t want to, she was so tired and every battle, every pointless conflict…

  
It would never end.

  
What she was, what she stood for and represented, would mean it never stops. All it would be is an endless spiral of death and pain.

To receive or worse inflict such misery upon the world, that she would not be willing to do.

Let it end here. Surely this was enough, why would they yet ask more of her?

The heat was relentless now, seeping back into her body, slowly sweltering under the layers furs and the fire warmed air inside the tent.

The moment had passed now, beyond all return and all she could feel was regret. To realise she had survived, caused such destruction and yet lived where innocent people had fallen, in her defence no less.

 

It was too much.

 

The deluge of tears slipped free once again, unable to stop, soaking her cheeks and the soft fabric beneath her head.

Her advisers fussed, scurrying about showing attentiveness, though she was yet to tell if their concern was genuine. Maybe they cared, but all she could think was their consideration for her well being would always be outstripped by how useful she was to them.

It seemed so strange to think that these people supported her so closely… she was unsure if she should even trust them.

The air became more heated, the temperature and temperaments rising. As they spoke amongst themselves the exchanges were strained, some words muttered harshly under breath, venomous and accusatory. Responses were louder, more affronted and displeased.  
Even as they moved outside the tent, leaving her under to the supervision of mother Giselle, their voices carried.

She was still too tired and now, altogether grown to be past caring.

Mother Giselle quietly hummed a tune of the Chant that she didn’t recognise, and under her heedful eye, she was allowed to give in to her exhaustion and sleep.

It was blissful; black and empty of anything, thought or reason. She wondered if this is what the dwarves dreamt like.

She may never have woken had the raised voices of her council been heard from the other side of the camp.

“What would you have me tell them? This isn’t what we asked them do!”

“We cannot ignore this, we must find a way!”

“And who put you in charge? We need a consensus or we have nothing!”

“Please we must use reason! Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we’re hobbled.”

“That can’t come from nowhere!”

“She didn’t say it could!”

“ENOUGH! This is getting use nowhere!”

“Well, we’re agreed on that much!”

She lay there in her cot, watching this drama unfold through the now open tent.

Grown adults one and all, shouting at each other like children, pointing the finger and placing the blame as though all that went before was the fault of one person alone.

“Shh,” Mother Giselle crooned, noticing that the Herald was awake “You need to rest.”

“They’ve been at it for hours,” she replied, still weary and no where near recovered.

“They have that luxury thanks to you,” the elderly sister smiled “The enemy could not follow, and with time, we turn to blame. Infighting may threaten as much as this Corypheus.”

“But the only thing shouting gets us is a headache - another headache," she said firmly, a familiar pulse building behind her eyes.

Giselles smile seemed sadder this time.

“They know. But our situation,” she turned to look the young woman in the face “Your situation, is complicated. Our leaders struggle because of what we survivors have witnessed. We saw our defender stand…and fall. And now we have seen her _return_.”

 

Ah.  
So this is what it was, what was meant.

 

“The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous our actions appear,” Giselle explained “And the more our trials seem ordained. That is hard to accept, no? What ‘we’ have been called to endure? What ‘we’, perhaps, must come to believe?”

She sighed; readying herself for what she knew was coming. What she wanted to avoid, in the most permanent way had she been allowed the chance.

“Mother Giselle, I just don’t see how what I believe matters. Lies or not, Corypheus is a real, physical threat. We can’t match that with hope alone.”

She stood, bracing herself against the cold that she so readily gave in to before.

Mask firmly in place, a true mask and not one of the gilded pomposities of Orlais, she stepped forward to assume what she knew they would make her. The role they had been grooming her for all along.

 

The icon she never wanted to be.

 

She isn’t ready but neither does she have a choice. Another sacrifice upon the altar of the Inquisition is all she expected to be.

She steps forward to address her council, now sheepish, sullen, silent after their argument. Honestly, she didn’t know where to start. Neither did they, considering how hard they avoided her gaze.

She pulled a deep, cold breath into her lungs and before she could say anything there was _song_.

This hymn was one she knew; and as it spilled from Giselles lips and through the hearts and minds of all around, she despised it even more than when she heard it for the first time in the Chantry.

Her life had never been clear, the dawn never came for her; only mist and shadow and murky paths of uncertainty.

The melody rose, swelling into the air, echoing through the mountains even as all voices subsided and stopped.

Solas took the opportunity after this; this moment now cemented in their future history, to speak with her. He explained all that he knew of relevance and what he believed the next steps to take would be.

 

The journey may be long, but with their plan in place and the people resolve and their faith in her now fully established, they began their soon to be chronicled expedition to the ruins of Skyhold.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I wanted angst. I'm debating whether to tie this in to another work I'm planning but this does set the tone for my Inquisitors mind set for that series. More details to follow, but feel free to comment and let me know what you thought of this :)


End file.
